Tyler's Undoing (Gloves Off #1)
L.P. Dover
FOR ONCE IN my life, I was untouchable.
No more was I the guy who settled for fourth place and moved on. I was determined to be the one everyone screamed for, the one women eagerly fell on their knees for. In the past year, so much had changed. I was finally living the life I’d always dreamt about. I had an agent, an undefeated record, and the women did fall eagerly to their knees in front of me . . . literally.
All I ever wanted was to be the best, and now I was here, I didn’t want to go back. No one wanted to be the guy who always got close, but could never quite reach the top. Seeing the disappointment on my father’s face made me feel worthless. It also didn’t help that he had no faith in me whatsoever. He was my coach, and he took his job seriously. Sometimes, I think he forgot he was actually my father as well.
“This is insane,” Todd exclaimed, slowly spinning around, beaming at the amount of people sitting in the arena. “They all want you, Tyler. Breathe it in, soak it up. It’s only going to get better from here.”
You’re damn right.
Always the enthusiast, Todd Winfield—with his slicked back, midnight-black hair and expensive gray suit. He was thirty five years old, a born opportunist, and my agent. Thankfully, I was lucky enough to have been found by him after my epic battle last year at the Golden State tour. I had been grappling with UFC’s infamous bad boy and Heavyweight champion, Matt Reynolds. He’d kicked my ass, but I sure as hell didn’t make it easy for him.
Fast forward one year, and we now found ourselves in Dallas, Texas, at the American Airlines Center. There had to be twenty thousand people sitting around the arena, chanting my name. The sound of the crowd screaming for me as I walked down to the ring, echoed in my ears. Knowing they’d come to see me, was the ultimate high. Pumped for the fight, I sauntered down the aisle, keeping my gaze on my opponent.
Countless women raked their nails down my skin, screaming their need for me—what they’d do to my body. My agent and father warded them off, but I f*cking loved it. All of it.
It was my time and I was going to live it.
Before I could get into the ring and kick my opponent’s ass, my father halted me with a hand on my shoulder. “Concentrate, son,” he growled low in my ear. “Cockiness will not win you the fight. It’ll only make you sloppy.”
Glancing up into the ring, I chuckled. I had nothing to worry about, my opponent was a hard striker, but I was quicker on my feet. “I’m not cocky,” I snapped. “I’m confident. This guy’s going down.”
My father narrowed his eyes and huffed.
I’d been training with some of the best MMA fighters in the league and I didn’t only believe I could win this fight, I knew it. Taking off my black and neon green robe, I handed it to my father and jumped into the ring, ignoring the disgusted look on his face.
“When did you get like this?” he argued impatiently, folding my robe over his arm. “I didn’t raise you to be an arrogant, self-centered jackass.”
Before the announcer made his way to the center of the ring, I leaned over the edge and peered down at my father. His annoyed glare was starting to become permanently etched. Most people agreed we looked alike—he was just an older version of me and also a retired fighter.
“No,” I brushed him off, “you raised me to be a winner, and I finally am. Try not to be too overjoyed with the concept.” Without waiting for a reply, I strolled to the center of the ring just in time for the announcer to call out my name.
“And fighting in the black shorts tonight, is the one you’ve all been waiting for! Ladies and gentleman, I give you Tyler . . . the Terror . . . Ruuussshiiiing!”
Lifting my arms, I circled around the ring, feeding off of the sound of my name coming across thousands of lips. My opponent—with his navy blue shorts, pale skin, and bright red hair—had a leer on his face the entire time. The combination made him look like a defective American flag. Justin Somers. What a douche. I guess it was Memorial Day weekend, maybe he took the red, white, and blue seriously, except he didn’t look to be in a festive mood.
“So were you and Pops arguing over how you were going to lose tonight?” the talking flag sneered.
Scoffing, I planted my feet on the mat and got into stance, clenching my fists tight. I knew the bell was about to ring, and I was going to be ready.
“Actually,” I began, “we were just discussing how long it would take to knock that smirk off your face. He said two minutes . . . I disagreed.”
Justin opened his mouth, but before he could get one word out, the bell rang and I swung. My fist connected with his jaw so hard, his head snapped to the side, and he flipped backward onto the mat. Total knockout.
I leaned over his limp figure and added, “My mistake, I told Pops it would only take fifteen seconds.” I glanced up at the monitor on the wall and smirked. “It was actually under three. Well, thanks for the great fight. I learned a lot.”
“Ladies and gentleman, winning by TKO is your champion for the night. . .”
When the announcer held my hand up in the air, I didn’t hear anything else. I was too hyped up, endorphins pounded through my veins. This is what it’s all about. This is what being a winner feels like.
It was a drug and I was on the best f*cking high of my life.